My dear Psychologist

Things I Couldn't Say Across the Room

Oh Dear Psychologist!

Oh dear psychologist,

dear, dear, dear...

I walk in—

close the door,

like it's a daily chore.

A smile on my face

so you wouldn't start calculating the day.

You reply with the same smile

I showed before.

You sit right in front of me—

and I sit where

a lot of people come and go.

It's a daily routine for them:

to cry and scream,

then ask for meds.

I am like them too.

Just a little different—

like everyone thinks they are.

I talk.

You listen.

I avoid eye contact

so I don't cry,

then stare at you

just to zone out midway.

I've heard whatever you say—

on repeat,

like one, two, three.

I know you mean well.

And me too.

That's all I said.

I thought I was good.

But the session got longer

and longer

than it should have.

These sessions come back at night

and haunt me into sleep.

I don't think I can now.

Sleep, that is.

I should have slept—

should have eaten—

should have moved.

I didn't.

It's like

there isn't a single working bone left.

I think about what I should say,

then forget it.

I say things

and contemplate them

until they become something else.

I like death

and still am afraid of it.

What if I sleep

and don't wake up again?

Would you be happy—

At least she didn't die by suicide?

Well, that's good.

I don't want to either.

I don't want to self-harm

in a way that leaves cuts

clearly written across my body.

But in a way—

damage is done.

And my mind is calm.

Health is something

that isn't coming to me,

but sure is going away.

But thank you.

My dear psychologist.

I like death

and still am afraid of it.

When I die,

I know they will question me—

ask me things

I may not be able to answer.

And somehow,

the worldly questions

already feel like too much.

What have I done?

Who have I hurt?

What have I left undone?

But the questions beyond this world

seem greater

than the ones in it.

As if every answer

I fail to give

has a place waiting for me.

As if, if I cannot answer,

hell is the treasure

that death holds.

And perhaps that's why—

death is a treasure

I don't think I deserve yet.